Coming Closer
by julyisfree
Summary: Sylar glides his fingers through the recently polished metallic face of the golden clock eerily resting on his work table. It's a beautiful piece with rounded edges, not overly complicated machinery – the cogs and springs come apart without a thought – and a white generic face with a printed message that says: For eternity. Part of Burn it to Ashes series now Complete.
1. Coming Closer

**Title:** Coming Closer

**Pairing:** Sylar/Claire

**Warnings:** angsty piece, violence, character death.

**Summary:** He began to act like a hero, proclaiming that he had changed because of a nightmare or something like that. The details are lost to Claire. This is the untold story told from the one and only unlikely hero.

**A/N: So guys I wanted to write something for my 'Burn it to ashes' series of one-shots and this came. This installment is pre Burn it to ashes which was my first one-shot of this particular verse. I don't know how many chapters I'll add to this one, but I can tell that is going to be from Sylar's POV until –ehem- well his "death".**

**If anyone is interested in following this verse, here is the order of the one-shots:**

**. Coming closer (in progress)**

**. Burn it to ashes (complete)**

**. Time after time (complete)**

**. One (complete)**

**. Fire (complete)**

**. Cold snap (complete)**

**. ¿? I never know with this verse ;-)**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Heroes if I did, I would have given the series a proper ending *_*

* * *

Sylar has time - an unholy amount - and ways - many ways of operating in the form of powers.

He can adapt and blend in; he holds the intrinsic capacity of lending out new variables, adjusting to a new environment, in order to not perish. He was told that once when compared to a simple organism; a parasite, it was. Maybe he _was_, maybe he _is_. It's evolution – that's his mantra - and he has evolved time and time again. He has proven to be a master on it.

But when you take the variables aside, when you cut out the support, when solitude becomes a liability, he can't help himself. He goes back to where it all started. For the roots of what he is, the soil of what he was made from, and the essence of what he bestows is the glue that keep all the pieces of his pliable self stuck together. It's undeniable.

We're born to be the men and women we are destined to be.

The dreamer boy who sat at the back of the classroom, always looking out of the window, still sees the world through idealistic eyes. The meager cheerleader who sought her true identity is still figuring out who she is and fighting with who she wants to be. _The son of a watchmaker,_ he mulls over as he thoughtfully gazes up and watches people sauntering past him on the busy streets of New York. The worn sign from above moves, facing up briefly as it's carried away by the wind – Gray & Sons it says. He snickers. Once again it is an unintentional witness of people's despondency, a watcher of his humble and ominous origins. The son of a watchmaker grows up to be an insignificant watchmaker himself.

It's so futile yet he doesn't have anything else left to fight against it with.

_We fit; we match like puzzles pieces making the gears of the bigger design start ticking._ All timepieces, too; clocks don't fit right. And like a magnetic pull that calls with its siren voice, the lost navigator always goes back to where he started.

Even if it is to sink.

His eyes fought to adjust in the barely lit room as he let himself into the building fully. A gush of wind comes in behind him and the dust flies around the shop. The layout is unfamiliar yet the ticking is still there, loud and clear like a perpetual symphony. He has a lot of cleaning to do as the years have taken its toll in here as well.

"Gabriel." A voice cuts into his scattered thoughts and he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes before a figure step out from the back of the shop.

"Noah," he utters in a calmness thinly veiling contempt as he recognizes the other man immediately, those horn rimmed glasses shining despite the swallowing shadows around. The use of his birth name is still foreign to him after years of disuse and neglect; he estimates it is going to take a lot more for him to get used to it, even though he is at least ready to embrace it again. "Long time, no see," he mumbles tersely.

He wants to ask why the hell Noah Bennet is here of all places but he is aware of the growl that is fighting its way out from inside his closed-off throat. The sensation makes his knuckles ache and Sylar deliberately unclenches his tightened fist as he attempts to calm himself.

There are vestiges of an old being claiming vengeance prickling in his gut; the switching of his body, the misplacement of his soul. Of what was left of it. His eyes lower minutely as he fully steps into the foyer._ It doesn't matter now,_ he reminds himself.

"It certainly was." Noah agrees shortly and walks to the counter, wary of the spark of anger that scratches the surface when he uses Sylar's birth name. He dissects the serial killer's reactions and curves his mouth, placing his hand upon the cool surface, pocketing them for further study later. He leans against it, and wonders if Sylar could read the object –he knows he can, but could he determine if it has witnessed enough suffering? He wants to ask but refrains for doing so. It probably had. "I heard you're trying to leave your homicidal tendencies behind," he taunts, the corner of his mouth barely lifted up, expression blank, his eyes zeroed on the details of Sylar's face; as if reading an object too, he search for something.

Sylar jerks his head up and, despite himself, his eyes flash a tinge of uneasiness. "I am." He says tightly. For a fickle moment, he _wants_ to regain the reigns of his dormant beast but instead he sighs and confirms more steadily, "I am trying." He says it more firmly with a conceding voice, convinced he is telling the true. He doesn't want to give Noah the satisfaction of gaining some leverage against him and besides, he wants more than anything to prove him wrong. Even if he is just _trying_.

The company man purses his lips. The beast did not rise to the bait like he was expecting. Instead, he retreated to himself, buffing insecure; Noah's brow tightened, the only visible response he gives as he thinks. _I could work with this_. His hand slips from the wooden counter and rejoins his side as he straightens himself to his full height, ready to do what he was asked to do here, thought he still has his doubts, he is more at ease now. "We could use a hand or two in the company," he abruptly says, his face stern, watching closely.

Sylar's eyes glint with bewilderment and, for a mere second, he struggles to say something. He notes the use of 'we' instead of 'they' and his confusion grows even more. "Are you asking me to work with you?" He finally formulates and asks through almost sealed lips, the words accompanied with a slight tilt of his head as he studies Noah's expression. He could tell what the truth was before the other could talk if he wanted, but words -especially Noah's- have more meaning when you can track them to its usually insincere source.

Noah's face filled with amusement at Sylar's obvious confusion. "Well, I don't need an unstable man around," he comments, it riddled with derision. At least he is opting to tell the true freely, it wouldn't do well otherwise. "However," he pauses and his smirk flattens as he struggles to continue, in spite himself; "there are people who seems to trust you for the job."

He doesn't mind to cover the withering look aimed towards the other man, but his second statement gives him pause. Sylar is sure that Peter has his hands in this matter but he was at a loss as to who else could rest their faith in his person - until the answer flooded to the surface. "Angela," he snarled curtly. The woman was surely the one to coerce Noah into this with what intentions he is never sure "What if I refuse?"

The company man nodded at Sylar's guess; the woman is probably the only person capable of convincing him to come here, even when he is not sure about the tidbit of working alongside his nemesis. But he can't deny Sylar's aptitude for the job. His shrug was noncommittal. "Well, you're a free man now," he quips and finally moved to the door. "You can do whatever you want." However, he hoped that Sylar did the right thing; _killing him would be a waste of time_, Noah pondered in thought.

Sylar took in Noah's words, bemused by the offer of an option. What he _wants_…. "How did you find me?" He muttered when Noah passes by him.

The man who always seems to have the plan, stopped with one hand on the knob and one foot out onto the sidewalk. "I know how you work." He looked over his shoulder. "It's a trait we both share," he added and then was gone.

Sylar was left alone in the middle of his old watch shop. Alone to ponders his thoughts, to weigh his options. What does he _want _to do? What does he _desire_? A sudden thought crossed his mind rendering all the others silent and he felt the swirling of ink dancing on his skin. A familiar face stared at him back as he gazed down at his arm. He wants a lot of things, he is sure of that, but some of them he is not going to have anytime soon; probably never.

But it _is_ a start.

Maybe he doesn't need to go back to the beginning to start all over again. Maybe this new life can be initiated from a totally different point.

Maybe it is true that we're born to be the men and women we are destined to become, but when there are a lot of maybes and there is purpose, _maybe_ Sylar can escape destiny's clutches and shape who he _wants_ to be.

Purpose is like a spark; it ignites something in him with its burning and brightness. He is sure he is going to need all the _fire_ he can make in order to illuminate his new path.

* * *

**Hope someone has enjoyed it!**

**And I promise that now I'll work in MNTSK *runs away***

**Kisses.**


	2. Memento mori

**Title:** Memento mori

**Warnings: **overall angsty piece, violence, character death. For this one just angst and disturbing imaginary :S

**Summary: **Sylar follows his own path, even if it is to burn.

**A/N: So guys here is another one-shot and remember that this series is a collection of one-shots revolving around the same verse, it can be read separately but you will probably understand better if the others are read as well; just for the purposes of not overflowing the internet, I decided to put all the ones told by Sylar's POV in one place.**

**And yes, I know I posted this a long time ago, but please know that all of my projects are not going to be discontinued. I'm just suffering for the lack of time syndrome – a very bothersome one - but I had all my stories already planned I just need the time to write them *now runs to write MNTSK and The show must go on***

**This one was inspired by something that Purple_Lex told me in one of our trademark long PM's, so I dedicate this to her, even when she was the one beta'ing too. Lots and lots of Dulce de Leche for you!  
**

**Note: I used X:X:X as separators of a somewhat 'same' sequence and several dialogues from a lot of episodes, if any of you have the chance to see those episodes again please do –always, is a good opportunity to see Heroes again ;-) if not, trust me is not necessary.**

**Happy reading :-)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes if I did, I would have given the series a proper ending *_***

* * *

_Memento mori, translated from Latin as 'Remember your mortality', 'Remember you must die' or 'Remember you will die'_

He lives like a monk.

Submissive in strict discipline, he is carried away by the hum of an old and well practiced song, which is hard to forget even after all these years of listening to the world without it.

Through the nights he sleeps in a restless, impassive slumber. It is brief in its duration and shallow in its depth, since he doesn't feel as though it's fitting otherwise. In the mornings he looks out of the window, early-rising rays lashing out at the tightly closed curtains as the dawn has yet to pass; He just stares and breaths in; Those moments are commemorated with the little that he lets pass through his mouth, no need to flood his veins with multiple permeable nutrients when his highly efficient metabolism will forever ensure he is in good health, whether he eats or not. In any case, he does eat now - food _real_ food - not out of necessity but because of the worldly knowledge that '_breakfast is the most important meal of the day' _and he feels that at least he owes society that: to not go against the flow. He just agrees with the collective consciousness of the world.

He walks.

Wandering around apparently aimlessly, letting his feet do all the work while his mind is really the one flying and seeing places. Sometimes it leads to good places, brief moments in his early childhood where he sees himself: a boy, a tiny child, playing with his stroller around the protective bubble of his mother's skirt, bathing in the aroma of butter and chocolate as these are mixed to create the distinctively sweet smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies.

The scenes change in quick succession and soon he sees that very same boy, now grown up in a lanky and awkward form, almost unrecognizable, being beaten on the hard concrete of his neighborhood. He does not dare to lift off the ground – that _boy_ - as he is not feeling strong enough, especially as his _new_ mother's words resonate freely in his skull: '_only the strongest, Gabriel, only they are special in the eyes of god'_. However, as his smelling senses are plunged with essence of blood as the rich red liquid mixes with his tears in the dirty alley, they drown away the smell of chocolate and butter, obfuscating each other. He can't tell the difference between his _new_ mom and his _old_ one anymore. He supposes that a child's mind is more effective in shaping and modeling the world around them to meet that _contentment_ that we're promised to have as adults. He has yet to learn everything about his traumatic past, even after all these years.

But he isn't always the protagonist of his thoughts during this gloomy time; no, he also sees them.

His victims.

One by one they march in constant repetition before him, their eyes forever frozen in that horrified and misfortunate expression, for he was the rumor of death that came in person to harvest their last breath. Sylar's thoughts mutate and transmute, jumping over steps of his reasoning and re-establishing like the squeamish little things they are. Suddenly, he finds himself wondering what would have been of the lives of those people had he not set foot on their threshold. Would Dale Smither have mastered in its completion her power to listen for incoming storms? Would Isaac Mendez have seen some light shining from his dark prophecies of the future? Would Sue Landers have used her power to grasp the truths that the world has to offer?

He doesn't know the answers, not exactly anyway, since the only thing he can do is estimate potential getaways for each question and play with the 'what if's', because these people no longer _exist_. They are all ashes of what they used to be, burning remains within the fire of his own greediness. He suffers, always like this, and that sadly detrimental knowledge forces him to step away from those wanderings if only for a moment and then stop altogether. Sylar finishes his contemplation time – always slightly before the set up time - to move like the hands of a clock onto the next phase of this constant circle of piled momentums.

Reading time.

A compilation of whitish paper; page after page is turned as he loses himself in them, in that world that gasps alive only in the imaginative minds of its readers. Mysteries, historical novels, philosophical monologues, full epic battles, loves that never seem to reach their happy ending, the genre is not important to him. No, he is averse to none. His single request is for it to be long and _never _ending, for he has time and the appetite to get full on them. The bible is one of his favorites because it seems to be an ever-changing book. He can always add something to it. He makes sure to always have a copy around, particularly to read when he is feeling repentant. But the book that he probably enjoys the most is '_Pillars of the Earth' _because every time he reads it, he finds new meanings to each chapter, to each page, to each _memory._

"Enjoying your reading, Gabriel?" His concentration slips in the next paragraph and he fiddles momentary with the edge of the worn out pages of the book lying over his lap. Although he refuses to meet his unlikely companion's gaze, he is sure Noah Bennet is smirking. He lets the seconds stretch between them in their company assigned car.

"Most of the time, yes." _Not so much now._

The miles burn under the rubbers of their tires in this hot Virginian day – beautiful day to be wasted in the hands of duty- and Noah simply nods. "I hope your reading has extended to those files I gave you too."

"John Brown, age 34, residence in west Virginia. He works at Tech Max Enterprises a company that works with big franchises like Apple or Windows when it comes to the HR department. He's divorced recently, father of one child, fighting for the custody though it seems he is not doing well as his banking account is getting tinier and his lawyer is not doing much; recent psychological exams report him as persuasive and manipulative with control issues. He has been having serial troubles with his co-workers and family and he is suspected for sending a man to a coma a month ago. "This time he does let his dark brown eyes wanders beyond his book in order to catch the look of fleeting annoyance that rolls behind those horn-rimmed glasses. "Yes, I think you could say I read It." his smirk is devoid of malice only filled with playful rightfulness.

Noah's knuckles pale under the pressure of grasping the steering wheel so tight, for the umpteenth time he questions his motives to allow to be paired with him of all people, given their shared history but then he uncoils the fingers and relaxes them, as he remembers "You forgot to mention his ability."

Now he completely lost the cadence of the written words laid in front of him. Sylar doesn't want to say it. He doesn't wants to thinks of abilities, because he knows the other man is looking forward to that, just to see him squirm.

"Manipulation of memories," Noah answers for him as the corner of his mouth lifts up, taunting him "Keep your facts straight, Gabriel."

* * *

Eventually, they reach their target's destination. Noah parks the car in front of a Victorian house, exits the vehicle, and utters to him in a grave tone, "Do not go inside unless I tell you otherwise, understood?"

Sylar doesn't say anything - at least not in his face - and instead silently wonders about the reason for bringing him along for this 'mission' – _they_ didn't exactly gave him all the facts - if he is only going to play the part of ornamental plant while Noah does all the hard work. He doesn't have to wait long for an answer, however, when in the usual normal manner of learning from your own past experiences, he comprehends it. This is not the first time that the man who plans everything beforehand leaves him alone waiting in the car to catch the bad boys himself. No, if he has learned something from his past experiences with the man then it is that Noah likes to test his boundaries, push his buttons. This is a test, for he wants to see if the _hunger_ is going to obfuscate his primary goal – the mission- and unlike the others two times that he endured them with - in both - failed results, he is all set to pass this one. So instead of objecting, he reclines the stiff column of the seat and rest more comfortably against it.

Good thing he has something to read.

* * *

He finished reading the lengthy chapter he had started when they arrived before Noah has the opportunity to return, though the company man _doesn't_. His book is cast aside. It mounts as something livid, rises in the pit of his stomach, shifting and making his guts churn in anticipation and before he gives a name to the incipient feeling, Sylar has already exited the leatherette seat as he sets foot on the sidewalk.

He stops, his tall figure looming over the side of the car, and waits, observing beyond the front yard of the house with a clinical eye. The erected building has its front door closed. There is no sign of any disturbance; rather there is an aura of stillness circling it and the house exudes silence perilously. Inadvertently, his left hand grazes his right forearm as something stirs down there, a burning sensation leaving imaginary embers on his pale skin. He doesn't need to look to know that _her_ eyes are burning little holes there, marking skin that has yet to be marked with her actual accusatory stare.

What if the test was for him to give in? What if it was what was expected? Noah Bennet has a way of wording his requests so that it keeps you from knowing what is up from down. With this in mind, he pushes his feet forward with the grace of a big feline. And in any case Sylar's intentions are good, that has to count as something. Sooner than later, he finds himself face to face with a glossily laminated door.

Two slight rotations of his wrist has the door opening like it has a mind of its own, revealing the creamy colored walls of the vestibule behind and the narrow staircase ahead. Treading the rustic carpet below, he deadens his footsteps as he goes deeper into the building. There is an entrance forming an arc to his right. He sneaks a peek, the arc only opens to an unfurnished room with bare wooden floor and a few boxes stacked against the far wall near a window overlooking the back courtyard.

Either he was moving in or he was planning to move out. _Or maybe he has resorted to selling his furniture now._

Sylar turns his head ninety degrees to the left. There, oppose of the arched entrance, is a green-colored sofa that sticks out from the pastel tones decorated around it. In front of the couch there is a coffee table and as he closes the distance to get a better look, he notices the two cups of tea resting on it. He grabs one and the pads of his fingers caress the ceramic in his grasp.

It is still warm.

There is nothing else there to examine, save for the kitchen he can fully see from where he is standing, but as he lowers his head, something draws his attention to the floor. He crouches at the foot of the stairs in the vestibule, thinking that what he is seeing is a button. Under closer examination, Sylar realizes with dreary suspicion it is in reality a drop of _blood_.

His reflexes are faster that his cognizance side as he climbs the stairs quickly, taking the steps two at a time. The hallway upstairs is dark except for the light that escapes from the open door at the end. His fingers twitch, retreats into a fist. It flows and spills everywhere, this rampant dose of adrenaline, and then it finally settles on the fibred muscle in his chest cavity, making it squirms and spasm, pumping more blood through him.

_It's not an unpleasant feeling_, he muses; _not entirely._

Reaching the end of the corridor, he pushes the door open with the utmost care to stay silent. There is a bed in the room and Noah lies immobile on it, but he isn't the only one there. Another pale looking man is standing over him, tying Noah's legs together. His partner has a bleeding wound on his forehead and his infamous gun is lying on the bedside table near the window.

He can already picture the scene as it unravels before his eyes. Noah enters, has a semi-friendly conversation with the guy, and then he tries to coerce him to accompany him back to their headquarters. The guy refuses, Noah takes out his gun in his habitual manners, and the man overtakes him somehow. Noah ends up unconscious and tied to the bed and the guy is what? …Trying to take advantage of the old man?

"He is going to be so mad when he awakes," he voices out loud aware of the full effect that his words, his voice, has in most people.

The man, John, looks startled and wild as it was expected. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Sylar walks forward leisurely until he is close enough to tower over the other man. "I'm his partner-" He lifts both eyebrows, taking this unbelievable time to delve into some of his reasons too. "-and as to what I'm doing here, I guess you could say I'm trying to earn some brownie points with the old man."

John takes his arm before he can react; his eyes lost the quality of startled, leaving only wild. "Bad move," he snarls.

X:X:X

_There is something enrapturing in this scene. He can feel it despite everything and it doesn't escape his attention. Something alluring in it perhaps as he revels in the way those two persons in front of him show so much intensity, so much devotion, so much __**love**__ between their eyes. Seeing it plays before him brings forth old memories of his own solicitude; it's almost bitter sweet. But Sylar crushes those ridiculous feelings below the heel of his boot as quickly as they come, because something the Japanese man said has definitely gained his attention and curiosity is eating up his insides._

"_Wow, you're right." He swallows a mouthful of pancakes down his throat as he makes his way to the storage room of the 'Burn Toast Dinner'. The happy couple startles and turns their suffused with love stares to him. "These are incredible." He places the full plate down on the table, and sighs contentedly, ready for business. "Sorry to interrupt this Hallmark moment but we have a deal; you tell me everything you know."_

_The Japanese man, Hiro, looks down at the red-head and then he fixes him with his intense narrow gaze. "Yes, I will tell you how you die."_

_The tiny guy pauses; Sylar folds his hands over the table he is leaning against with thinly-veiled anticipation and full on interest._

_Hiro's face furrows. "You die alone." His eyes shine with something resembling pity as he bits his lip. "I´m sorry."_

_He stiffens his muscles, straighten his spine like a snake ready to attack; he doesn't like the look on the Japanese man's face. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" It can't be, he is __**special**__, just like his mother wanted; he can feel it inside of himself; knows it, as he knows the workings of a watch, he is the __**most **__special of them all._

"_It means you will collect a lot of powers, you'll kill many people, you'll become strong-" And that is what he wants to hear. He is going to succeed, be the bigger special than all of the others. "-the strongest of them all-" Sylar lets a smirk, flood with satisfaction. " -but in the end-" Hiro continues and he grimaces in disdain, because there will be no true end, not for him anyway, if he gets all the powers promised to him. "-it won't make any difference." Hiro looks at his girlfriend again. "We all gather to stop you. You are alone and no one will mourn your death." Sylar's smirk slowly starts to fade away like a mist of smoke in the wind. "No one will shed a tear; no one." he suppress a frown; It weighs heavily on him, those __**'you are alone'**__ words. It had never bothered him before but for some reason they dig a hole through his armor now. "I wish I can change fate but you must go on your path."_

_He gasps and suddenly he is no longer in the Burn Toast Dinner. However, he is still in Texas because he recognizes this alley, the same he was before. The Japanese man is driving away in a motorcycle on the street, wide ahead of him. He looks down in a somewhat shaken mood and finds his black hat resting at his feet. He picks it up, munching those words over and over - "you are alone; no one will mourn your death" - until he hears the eager yells of cheers carried by the wind. _

_Something dawns on him, something glorious and priceless that encompasses all other thoughts. He doesn't __**need **__to die, not with that amazing power of immortality. And he doesn't need to be alone either, not when there is at least one other immortal walking the earth. He decides right then and there that he is not going to kill the cheerleader __**after**__ he takes her power._

_X:X:X_

_His mouth is dry and his tongue feels heavy, his heart is thudding in his chest. It expands, swells, constricts; a repetitive circle of invariable cadence. He can feel it build inside him like a bubble waiting to explode. It's cold in here, the tips of his fingers are freezing. They twitch, an unraveled force waiting for be lashed out. They stopped him before but they won't right now. He can see his target in the face. She is all big eyes laid in front of him. So innocent, so unaware, just like that cheerleader in Texas. Sylar scowls slightly, remembering how she slipped away from his fingertips, __**twice **__"Funny, I didn't hear your footsteps."_

_He takes another in the air, drawing closer. "That's because there weren't any." Sylar smirks as if to prove to her that the reason behind it is so much more sinister._

_Dale Smither stills herself and listens. "That sound, in your heart, what it is?"_

_And __**oh,**__ how well she listens. He __**is**__ still special and soon he will be the most, he takes another tiny step, one more step closer to the top; just walking his path; he is __**not **__going to die. He smiles, satisfied. "Murder." His fingers twitch again. Soon they will be cool no more but instead warm with the heat of fresh blood._

_He can already hear the incoming scream._

_X:X:X_

_He is close, he can feel him; the loft the painter lives in is big and messy and he twists his mouth in distaste. Sylar spots him easily. The man is surrounded by canvases in all sizes and he is working frantically on one until his shoulders slouch and he stops. Sylar studies the painting just finished and smiles._

"_You really can paint the future, just like the professor said." He looks around, amazed. "Fantastic."_

"_You are late."_

_He stops and gives the man his undivided attention, amused. "I guess you know why I'm here."_

"_You're the one who is gonna kill me," the painter, Isaac, says and advances relentless._

_He has to give him credit, the guy has some guts. "That's true," he drawls out and waits for the spark of fear that always comes next. But there is none. He lifts one eyebrow. "This is usually the part when people start screaming," he points out._

_Isaac's expression is blank "__I tried fighting the future." Sylar tenses and looks at him curiously. "Maybe you can do better."_

_**Future**__. He remembers the Japanese man's words - 'you are alone, no one will mourn your death'. He is taken aback. Does this painter know? "Why me?" Sylar narrows his eyes. "Do you see some special future for me?"_

_The painter takes a step close. "They stop you and you die."_

_It is a cool stab and his jaw tightens with anger and distinct pain. That's makes two people now that prophecy the same awful thing; he covers his transitory discomfort by laughing as he once again takes in the paintings around him. There has to be one where his future is another outcome. He is changing it; he is making sure of that. "You painted all that, too?" His finger twitches slightly. "Show me," he refers to the ones starring him. "__**Show me,**__" he commands in a nightmarish voice. Isaac turns sideways and he follows his gaze closely, thinking that maybe he is giving in, but there is only a weapon over on the table and he sends it flying away before Isaac can do anything. "Now, now," he twitches his fingers once and sends the painter flying backwards to the floor. He twitches them again and two brushes slam into the man's wrists, pinning him there._

_The man screams and pants out, "It's already gone."_

_He is not amused, not at all. "Why don't you tell me all about it, then?" He looks down at the painter lying crucified to the floor. Sylar wants to know; he wants to be sure that what the Japanese man says has already changed._

"_I don't need to watch it happen," Isaac spits out and grimaces in pain. "I've wasted my life, destroyed everything good that ever came to me," he is rambling and shudders. "At least I did one good thing before I died." He smirks._

_It enrages Sylar, far more than the Japanese man memory; he twitches his fingers again and sends two more brushes forth, impaling the painter's feet now to the ground. Isaac screams and he revels in the sound._

"_You can't fight the future," he heaves._

_He doesn't like the sound of that; he __**is**__ fighting to change his. "Neither can you." He spats._

_Isaac looks at the ceiling and closes his eyes. "It's all right," he says calmly, accepting his destiny fully, and Sylar crouches beside his chest. He cannot deny the flash of admiration that arises in him - for tiny it is - the curiosity that drowns out the Hunger for just a moment. "I finally know my part in all this." The painter looks him in the eye. "To die here with you." Sylar tilts his head, intrigued. Is this the way to act? To just simply __**accept **__his fate? That he is going to die alone? At least Isaac has the grace to die in __**his**__ company "But not before I show them how to kill you and stop the bomb." He is pale, probably from blood loss, and his chest expands with difficulty. "I finally get to be a hero."_

_Sylar smirks and finally understands. He is going to change his future by becoming a __**hero**__; eventually. He doesn't __**have **__to die alone. His fingers raise and the invisible force starts slicing into the painter's flesh._

_X:X:X_

_Once again, Bennet told him to stay in the car. He snorts. When is he going to learn Sylar is not a little boy to be scolded? Yes he made a mistake but like he said to 'his partner' minutes before, he is an addict in recovery and he is __**trying**__; he is not going to pass this if he doesn't face his own demons. He sees Bennet rounding the corner of the house, having inspected the back of it, and the man is wearing a smirk, determining that the target is in there. Bennet stomps to the front door. Sylar waits a second or two before he exits the car and goes to the door as well. _

_He is ready to prove Bennet wrong - and all of them, for that matter - that he can be a hero too. He stops when he hears a painfully familiar voice inside. __**Claire**__. Desperate voices sound through the walls; things are getting heated inside. His hearts skips a painful beat in his chest. He read the file too; he knows what this guy can do. It's a lethal ability for __**all **__of them. He pushes the door open with telekinesis, one hand pointed in front of him as he charges forward._

"_Let go of the girl."_

_Claire's eyes are big pools of shocked confusion. "Sylar," she breathes out, almost entranced, and then she snaps out of it. "Dad, what is he doing here?" She screeches._

_Bennet looks briefly over his shoulders at him and ignores her question. "Let go of her Canfield, you don't stand a chance."_

_The man, Canfield, is holding on tightly to Claire's waist – shaking in utmost nervous state - and he panics. "Stand back, last warning," Sylar yells in a voice that sounds foreign even to his own ears._

_Claire turns her head back. "I didn't know, I'm sorry," she whispers mournfully to Canfield._

_Stephen looks at them, then at her. "It's not over yet; hold on onto something."_

_He sees the resolve in the man's eyes and takes two steps forward. "Stand back; I will shoot!" He yells again, knowing he doesn't have a gun. Canfield doesn't need to know that and he is counting on the surprise factor to catch him off of guard with one of his powers, preferably a very damaging one. But his warning falls on deaf ears as Canfield extends one arm and forces the reality's fabric to break as a sucking and deadly blackish hole opens in the middle of them._

_It's all a blur after that._

_Things start flying around him and before he knows it, he is being dragged toward it with alarming force. He holds onto a column and he sees Bennet grabs onto one too. But he can hear Claire's frantic pleas for help and his father yelling over the deafening noise to hold on. He doesn't have to think about it much at all - he lets go of the column and concentrates on the swirling motion of the vortex. He lets it pull him in and at the last moment he pushes with all his telekinetic power until the momentum of the rotation takes him to the other side room. He grabs the railing; Claire's hand is slipping and he manages to pull one arm out over the oppressive force. He catches her wrist at the very last moment. Sylar sucks in a breath as his skin makes contact with hers; he can feel the pain and hate pouring onto him within their interlocked hands and the force of it is __**burning**__ him. She is looking right through him as she mouths '__**you die alone' **__and then her hand slips-_

_-and she is falling-_

_-and he is screaming-_

_-and she never ceases to stare brokenly and heart-wretchedly at him as the black hole swallows her completely._

X:X:X

Sylar wakes up screaming, his lungs burning in pain and his clothes drenched in a cold sweat. He blinks several times, trying to get in his surroundings as he feels his head spinning. "That's not true, I saved her," he whispers brokenly as he touches the side of his head, grimacing from the pounding in it.

"Oh I knew it was a touchy one," says a man crouching beside him. John gives him an apologetic smile and stands up, pacing the length of the room. "Let's see, oh yeah, Claire, that's it?" He turns around with a questioning brow. "Yes she died; well in reality, ceased to exist." He shrugs and resumes pacing again. "You see, vortexes are really dangerous things," He muses out loud and creates a significant pause as he stares at him again. "You really wear them out, don't you?" John tilts his head. "Those memories?"

Sylar is panting – not entirely listening - while he looks at Noah who is resting beside him, trying to remember, but his mind is like a fog and he can't quite see through it, only conjuring up _that _handful of memories instead. Her greenish eyes, so innocent, so unaware as she brands him with the same prophecy of the Japanese's man and the painter: _´you die alone'_. He is starting to shake; his hands, his mouth, every limb in his body quivering as his world crumbles under him. "No." Sylar changed his path, he was a hero. "She is not dead, she is not," he vows, voice strangled in his throat. He is not alone, he is not.

The man ignores his feverish plea and continues with voicing his line of thinking. "Most people, like with this one-" He points to the company agent still lying over the bed. "-are hard. It takes me a while and I have to leave them unconscious for hours because they bury their memories deep inside and place them behind a wall. However, you my friend," he labels him with curious eyes and a furrowed brow. "You have them in the forefront of your mind, always imprinted on your skin." He tilts his chin. "Why is that?"

_Imprinted, imprinted_, the word means something and the incoherencies spilling from his mouth fall away. Sylar can felt the ink swirling – moving - around and settling again. "You're right," he murmurs, overwhelmed with new memories and stands up, lifting the hem of his shirt's sleeve. Claire's face is embossed over his forearm. "I do have them imprinted on my skin." He raises the same arm in a quick motion and sends the man flying. John Brown - _memory manipulation _- his target, he remembers now. The man crashes with the utmost force of his rage against the wall behind.

John struggles with the invisible hands holding him pinned against the wall, his eyes bulging out as he is gasping, strangled.

"Tell me how you do it," Sylar hisses.

"Do-do what?" he rasps through his closed throat.

Sylar saunters closer. "Your power, I want to know how it works," he purrs with a familiar glimmer in his eyes, the sense of decadency.

John recognizes that glimmer; it's the same as what he saw in most of those memories. He closes his eyes. "They're like files," he concedes. "I access them, open them, and read them. Sometimes I erase them or rewrite them again," he says in one breath.

"That's quite fascinating," Sylar rumbles slowly as he lets the gears of his brain shift and rearrange themselves.

John opens his eyes and starts trembling in fright as he is met with the intense black eyes of the killer; he cannot help the tears that are prickling at the corner of his eyes. "Are you going to kill me now, like those people?" _Open skull, missing brain._

Sylar's mouth slowly curves up as he contemplates his earlier memories. "_Memento mori_," he whispers wholeheartedly in the stillness of the room, his meaning has a significance that only he can fully understand. "Every time I remember those it hurts, burns me a little inside, but at the same time every pain reminds me of my own humanity and that is something worth fighting for." He lowers his stretched arm – he can swear he sees _her_ smiling - and John falls to the ground with a grunt. "You should have gone deeper; I already have your power." He turns on his heels and gathers the rope attaching Noah's ankles together.

John touches his unscratched forehead, staring with an open mouth and furrowed brow. "What are you doing?"

Sylar looks down at him and fidgets with the rope in his hands, looking sheepish. "Making nice memories."

* * *

Noah's head is thudding. He feels as if a truck hit him several times over when in reality he knows he was smacked over the head with his own gun. He gazes out of the window of the car, staring at the scenery passing by quickly. Well, at least that is what he last remembers, because he doesn't exactly know the details after that. Just that he woke up, found that his target was neutered, all tied up in rope, and was being dragged out of the house by a very high-in-spirits Sylar, the same Sylar who offered to drive and had deposited John Brown on the back seat.

And the target wasn't dead or anything.

Noah remembered Peter telling him something the day they – he and Angela - suggested the idea of placing Sylar as his partner again.

'_He is different, repentant; he is not going to kill anymore.'_

He had laughed with gusto at the time. Now, however…. "When I was young, I wanted to be an English high school teacher," he says, still staring out of the window.

Sylar took his eyes off of the road for a moment to gaze at his unlikely partner. "Why are you telling me that?"

Noah's face is blank as he casts him a sidelong gaze in return. "Because I love to read too," he answers vaguely and shrugs. "So are you going to tell me more about that book you were reading?"

Sylar smiles truly for the first time in weeks, probably even years, "Buckle up Noah, it is a long story".

* * *

**Arrg! I'm still mad with Sylar for killing Isaac! How dare he! He was my favorite damn it! *forever butthurt***

**In another note, hope someone has enjoyed it.**

**Remember, reviews are love!**

**Kisses.**


	3. For Eternity

**Title: **For eternity.

**Warnings: **An overall angsty piece; for this one just lots of angst, violence and character death.

**Summary: **Sylar glides his fingers through the recently polished metallic face of the golden clock eerily resting on his work table. It's a beautiful piece with rounded edges, not overly complicated machinery – the cogs and springs come apart without a thought – and a white generic face with a printed message that says: _For eternity._

**A/N: I'M NOT DEAD, SEE?**

**So, another piece added to the puzzle that I like to call the 'Burn it to ashes' series. Finally get to wrap up this triplet of one-shots. Does this mean the BITA verse is now complete?**

**Haha, I don't think so.**

**Big apologies for my lack of activity, I'm trying to get back on my feet with my writing.**

**As always all beta'ed by Purple_Lex** **3**

**Happy reading :-)**

**Note: the song used at the end is _A Demon's Fate_ by Within Temptation.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes; if I did, I would have given the series a proper ending *_***

* * *

Sylar glides his fingers through the recently polished metallic face of the golden clock eerily resting on his work table. It's a beautiful piece with rounded edges, not overly complicated machinery – the cogs and springs come apart without a thought – and a white generic face with a printed message that says: _For eternity._

Is special.

Its first owner was a wealthy doctor who received the object as a gift from his illegitimate lover, thus causing the old dare of secretly storing it to ensure in an effort of avoiding awkward questionings from his wife; it turned out she did noticed it when her believed-until-that-moment-to-be-faithful-companion passed away, finding the delicate piece promising infinity between his belongings.

She sold it for nothing at a pawn shop.

It was in that humid hell hole that it was bestowed for years and years, collecting dust on a shelf, forgotten behind a replica of a katana, until a group of robbers, desperate to get money for their next fix, assaulted the place and took with them many – albeit cheap – antiques, the box holding the timepiece between those, along with the life of the poor pawnshop owner.

Many hands touched the watch after that, though never for a long period and never to be used properly. Manhandled and underrated, it appeared that its operating life had been lost in a box, shielded from a gullible world that meandered about and built illusions on plastic foundations, but was also defenseless from time itself for its beauty had dimmed and thinned just with the influence of a few ghastly decades.

Time was like a bomb, whispering a countdown.

**Tick, tick, tick.**

He closed the face's lid and swiftly put his tools aside. A greased hand skimmed the length of his dark hair; _it is getting long again_, he thought disparagingly, and sighed heavily, staring out at the showcase. _Gray & Sons_. Something weighed heavily in his mind and after a minute or two of staring vacantly into open space, he dwelled once again on his previous thoughts.

Maybe that wasn't quite right, maybe the clock had been an anniversary gift from the gleaming wife and then when the two eternally-in-love spouses had wrinkled and shriveled away it was handed to their heir, an inebriated detestable man who finally lost the last of his legacy in a game of cards during a night in Vegas to a lawyer who in turn gave the timepiece to a stripper in Texas?

Sylar shook his head. Reality was difficult to grasp and infer when you possessed both the ability to read an object's history and the power to rewrite it. Chronicling memories became a nuisance, his mind a death trap with him stuck in it.

It had been three months since the encounter with John Brown, the Special who could manipulate memories and he, Gabriel Gray, was hovering in a semi-state of insanity.

He could nod and smile non-forcibly – albeit if only to appease Noah; eat a greasy hamburger in a nondescript place alongside a bunch of bothering teens without feeling the compelling, wanting need to stick his fries in their mouths; find entertainment in the act of seeing a child jumping up and down around his father and smirk just because of the annoyed look on the man's face; help an old lady crossing the street like he ought to have done when he was just Gabriel, without feeling the filthiest feeling of inadequacy taint his hands; smile flirtatiously at the pretty blonde waitress from the 7-Eleven close to the watch shop, detecting no pain and betrayal, nor flinch, in the blueness of her eyes; listen to good old-fashioned classics from the 70's while reclining on a chair, letting the daylight die on the horizon; sort through a decade of journeys across the country; wonder how the little bat-shit crazy named Luke is doing while waiting for the timer on the microwave to go off.

He could have an excuse at the ready to use his devilish smirk and flaunt his powers while catching bad guys; write long and dull reports that don't have any other feasible purpose other than to be archived; make jokes with Noah about Angela's lack of facial expressions while driving the assigned company car down winding highways; play with Noah a little more by ruining his precious morning coffee with an added extra iota of sugar just to see him cringe in distaste; receive a full lecture later with a roll of his eyes just in order to exchange the mugs as Sylar doesn't have a problem with extra sweetness anyway; and he could also close his eyes, lessening the opacity of a million other consuming thoughts by a smidgen.

He could feel guilty without feeling like a failure, for his acts were accountable for something.

Returning to _her _every night.

He heaved another sigh. He wears a tamed mask of sanctioned killer but something was stirred that day in John Brown's house, something that howled and scratched tenaciously with its petite, perfect claws seeking to diffuse and destroy the faultless bubble that he had created to cage himself within. For though the faces of his victims were beginning to blur and swirl among a sea of even more demoralizing thoughts, there was a face that couldn't be blurred or ignored – for it was painted in ink over his skin – and the sharpness of her features was almost as sharp as the severity lingering in her emeralds orbs.

She haunted him, _judged _him. The impious sorceress was punishing him in broad daylight, behind closed curtains, in his dreams, in the news, in magazines, in the street, whenever he turned around someone – or something – had her face embalmed like a badge, spreading her in the same way an infectious, virtual virus spreads over the net world.

He felt a hot-blooded feeling maddening his senses every time it happened.

_How would someone feel if the ocean trench equivalent of its deepest desire rested upon a poster on every street? _Naked to the public eye, Sylar was exposed in a way he had never been. Of course mindless to this, they keep carrying her, like a pretty emblem, an object of fashion, when he had bled out and suffered and faced his worst nightmare just to be where he was.

Justice was a foreign concept to him.

It was fairly amusing how the little cheerleader, who dared to stare back at him with mock bravado in a darkened locker room while hungry eyes swept about her defeated form, was imprinted in him, featured inside his wannabe eidetic memory.

She wasn't the first – _victim_, that is; he had had a fair share of terrible firsts in his repertoire – but the wiggle of her eyebrows as they shot up, the way her mouth parted in a silent scream, the hue of her discolored cheeks, the exact pitch of a thud her bones made once they healed was carved forever inside him, linked neuron to linked neuron, rested profoundly between his memories. He had killed countless others, defiled lives with little thought thereafter, but only one face lifted up and mocked him from the other side. Her memory was like a snake that slithered around so deep in his gray matter that he often questioned himself if anything else but she had been real.

Those memories were enough to make Sylar turn over a new leaf, played over and over in the solicitude of his mind, fueled strongly by barely a few words exchanged in a storage room of cleaning supplies.

But then again it is everything but amusing. For the rigorousness in which she ruled his every move was deflating and extremely frightening because the thing was: _she didn't even have to lift a finger to do it_.

The tattoo was his first warning. He had relegated the most treasured thing that Sylar had buried from others, something many had attempted to dig out but he preserved – though wounded and in the peril of death – alive.

_A power over him._

So he moves, though he never makes contact. He doesn't allow himself such a risky development, even when he had been for all intents and purposes behaving himself for months, being the compliant agent that they wanted him to be, the man who wants nothing more than to complete the mission, a partner that makes even Noah smile from time to time with the faintest of pride in his expression.

He moves, every time, a little closer to her window while she sleeps soundly behind the glass, secured in warm blankets. His mind screaming for exertion, the black coat covering him does little to lessen the feeling of iciness wrapping around his bones.

But he is never ready to leave.

It's not during daylight – he couldn't be foolish enough as to commit such a neglectful mistake – but rather when night claims its reign is when he pushes outward, outside his petty shop to the coolly-covered pavement of the street, through the nighttime sky of the city until he stops with a bated breath, face pale and gleaming black eyes hovering in mid-air, perched at her window just staring – nothing more, nothing less – for hours.

_What drives me towards her? What keeps me there? Is it an evolutionary imperative? Some gravity that comes in pulsars? Or is it some mystic bond that interlaces our fates together?_

Sylar likes to think it is non-important; Gabriel, however, has other theories.

At first, right when this turn of affairs merged in his routine, he had blamed it on the jumble of memories – both real and adulterated – that were left after the messy encounter with the mementos manipulator. That man had messed with his mind in ways Angela Petrelli could only dream of. He could still hear the screams and the plethora of inane words bubbling from his mouth. Therefore, after her delivered John Brown to the company safe and tied-up, he went to see her. Checking, much like an investor does by way of periodically reading through the state of their deposits; he was just checking on her whereabouts.

Seeing for himself what he couldn't pry from others. Nobody would understand – not Peter, least of all Noah – this need to know she was still here in this world, inanimate to the ruthlessness of time. So he sought it and he didn't have a problem with that; pursuing answers to unanswered questions was his motto in life. When he then found that she was safe and unscathed, he returned, tranquil and at ease, to his taut niche. Yet something was ignited that night, a fire that licked hungrily at the flesh of his feet and couldn't be quenched. Once he tasted it, this burning need on his tongue, once he noticed he could get away with seeing her without anybody knowing, he found it harder and harder to leave.

Seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours, the moon would rise and shine and the city would awaken again with its descended. And Sylar would be there through it all, over and over.

The college co-ed was mindless of the pair of eyes that stalked her every move. But her modesty was kept, rest assured, because the act wasn't obscene; he would politely avert his eyes to give her a moment of privacy, if needed – though mostly she was sleeping by then. He wasn't a pervert and he wasn't here to fuel any sick fantasy that he could lust after. No, the whole idea in itself was chaste, innocent, bordering on _reverent_, like a sinner who kneels at the pews in church every Sunday with a passion born of need.

And it was in moments like those, when burgeon need would flay him alive, that his muscles would move in their own accord, edging closer to her, truly contemplating stepping inside her dormitory just to see the flaming fire that he knew would burn hungrily behind her green eyes, feeding on her rage for him like a junkie desperate for his next fix.

He had become _addicted _to her.

It was absurd, beneath him_, illogical;_ those urges were unreasonable. Inwardly chiding himself, he craned his neck and stared at the bright street lamp across the shop. Could he decipher the reason behind his behavior? She was immortal, indestructible, she couldn't be harmed, and she couldn't even be taken away from the frame of his life, not when there were common strings attaching them together.

"_You are not like the others; you're different, special, and I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to."_

The hidden truth laced behind those words was that he _didn't_ want to. If his destiny was to die alone, here it was his cosmic joke for the universe because she was his scapegoat from it, the breaking hammer that would shatter any misplaced brick.

_Safe_. He had spared her of a fortune countless others had perished from, of a death worse than any other. And then when he was done, done with her, because he didn't need any other thing other than for her to be the carrier of humanity's precious treasure – just to exist there for eternity – he continued on his way, assured that brick by brick, drop of blood after drop of blood, he had built for himself a better outcome.

Just knowing she would be there.

So he wouldn't – couldn't – die alone. He was merely securing his own well-being; _investing in her_.

But something had changed; the firmly planted notion that she, though indestructible, could be harmed, came into consideration. And the thought that she could cease to exist is oddly more frightening than the one of himself dying.

His ragged breathing perturbed the stillness of his dark shop, the lonely bulb flickering randomly in the street, threatening to leave him in darkness. "Why do I care?" Sylar whispers to no one; head bowing down in the midst of fear, he feels like that little boy again, the one who would ask for his mother to help him keep the monsters at bay.

Virginia is not there and his biologic mother was never there in the first place. With no one to answer and just his intuitive aptitude to respond, his eyes water and he feels a bitterness and un-settlement rise within him that leaves him feeling lost and unsure when his words are nothing but swallowed by the night, in the offing of being washed away with the subtle caress of his stupor as he collects the treacherous tear rolling down his cheek.

A power can't answer and he would laugh if the situation wasn't so dire because _power_ is the only thing he has left.

He remembers last night; Claire was twitching in her slumber, she always does – he knows she is a restless sleeper, just like him, and he hates himself a little more for knowing this. Her golden locks were carelessly sprawled across the pillow as she faced the window, sacred and glowing with the moonlight coming in from outside. She smiled and the little gesture made his heart surge with warmth and apprehension, beating faster. His body reacts instinctively, his control stretches thin, and he edges closer. Sylar, the most powerful of them all, is impotent under the faintest twitches of _her_ mouth.

Grunting in distaste, he throws the golden clock to the floor with a flick of his wrist; it rolls far away from him, the face lid opening and even in the faint light he can make out the words engraved. They mock him, too.

Making sure to keep all the locks in his shop mentally secured in place, he settles into the silence, gasping for air that is unsavory because now the urge to see her consumes his body. He will pry apart a clock, slice his wrists open, combine blood with metallic cogs and remind himself of who he is – a murderer, detestable, unwanted – and what he deserves in life – hell, nothing, anything that's horrible.

Time and time he will do this, he vows now, until the sun finally gets to shine again and then he will put on his suit dutifully without the scars to frame his skin, without the memory of his breath fanning the panes of her window. Sylar closes his eyes, the memory playing, the even mirror surface reflecting wanton black eyes, as he is _coming closer_.

**Tick, tick, tick.**

* * *

Noah is sure someone up there is laughing.

Kicking its feet in the air as it laughs, rolling over and over, because which other reason could there be other than someone finding amusement in all the turmoil that keeps coming his way?

He is not entirely in his right mind; he has not been since a few seconds ago. He knows the door of his hotel room was left totally open, exposing his holster and weapon draped over the bed; he knows that the lady standing by the ice machine has probably fainted or ushered a few curses his way, maybe both; he knows that the soles of his bare feet should hurt as they are scraping the asphalt because it is rough, and he is acutely aware that he is running through a parking lot half-naked, just in a shirt and a pair of blue boxers, but he is incapable of listening to any voice of reason underneath the buzzing sound in his mind. The last words he heard just before his cell phone died were: "_just like Arthur and he is going after Claire right now."_

His hands feel heavy and his tongue weightless, like cottony sugar as he reaches for the public phone at the side of the curb.

_Sugar_. He remembers, fingers hesitating for a moment before they move rapidly, pushing the numbers he knows by heart now. There is a ring, then two, and then Noah starts adding _his_ name to the list of people he is going to slaughter if something happens to his baby girl when he finally picks up.

"Hello."

"It's Bennet."

"Thought you were on a mission I wasn't part of," he says. His voice has a raspy quality to it; well, it is three in the morning, maybe he was sleeping. "Are you missing me already?" Or maybe he is just being an ass.

Noah doesn't _need _this. "Claire is in danger," he says bluntly.

There is a pause. "I could call Peter if you want-"

"No, he is not powerful enough." He cuts him off, angered, biting the words harshly; he doesn't need Gabriel's insecurities right now but instead Sylar's keen sense of control. "Just listen to me carefully – Angela dreamed it." The words are definite, no room for doubts. "Somebody is going to strip my baby girl of her power, just like Arthur took Peter's, just like he took Adam Monroe's." He lets that sink before adding, "Do you know _what _I'm talking about?"

"Yes."

Good, he doesn't think he could have explained without completely losing it. "I can't get there quickly enough so I need you to do this for me; do you know where Claire is?"

There is another pause. "I know."

"Then go there and do something about it because if you don't I swear to God, Sylar, I'm gonna _kill you _for good this time."

The threat floats heavily in the air before the phone shuts off and Noah's knees go limp. Supporting his weight on the edge of the ancient machine before him, he closes his eyes. He is sure he can hear the laughing this time and it is the only thing he can focus on besides the fact that he just send a monster to save his daughter's life.

God indeed has a twisted sense of humor.

* * *

He is a killer but, if nothing else, he has style.

What he does, what he _did_, was deplorable and shameless. He knows this and knows that others know. But Sylar is a showman, his thirst for power can only compare to his thirst for drama. He likes to shock the ground of his adversaries, throw them through a loop, because he is all for the foreplay; prolonging the inevitable only increases his satisfaction once he reaches the bloody part of it. Then it ends and with that all enjoyment too. He would talk down to them, twist some truths just to see the hope glowing in their eyes slowly die down as they realize there is no hope, not really, and that all their lives have been constructed around an unique epitome.

_To die here with him._

This is why every showdown of his was accompanied with an epic entrance worthy of an award.

However, there is nothing stylish in his movements as he stalks over to the window, the same he'd been staring through the night before, and flings it open; every pull of muscle is raw, thoughtless, and taut, as if in a numb daze. He remembers Monroe's ashes littered on the floor of Pinehurst and his heart beats butterfly-fast, triggered by his own memories. Those same ones that he wears at the front of his mind. The floodlights cast eerie shapes around her room but his eyes wander over a single spot.

Claire's bed is empty.

The simmer starts to boil and very quickly Sylar feels like he is running a marathon. His head twists around and then he sees. She is hunched over in a corner, big doleful eyes glowing as she is just in her pink pajamas, and a looming figure is closing in on her. He is trampled by another memory; the scene is painfully familiar. He quickly processes what could have happened till that point: she was asleep, hears a noise, sees the other man stalking in her dormitory, sits bolt upright, maybe hits him with something, and springs to the corner. _Why the corner? _It doesn't matter now, he is here.

And this time the bad guy will lose.

"Stay back from the girl!" He yells, another familiar memory rounding the corner, an arm pointing outward. Telekinesis does the job, propelling the man backwards until he crashes against the opposite wall, head making contact with a dull thud. _So much for a non-dramatic entrance_, he inwardly chides as he turns his head.

Claire has a _gun_. Figures; that's what she was trying to retrieve from the corner.

"What are _you _doing here?" She all but bites. Her perfectly white teeth are bared, her hair is a tousled thatch, and her arms sag slightly as she aims the gun in his direction. He doesn't move. Claire is rounding on him slowly, approaching the door with deliberated steps. He is sure she is going to make a crazy dash for it.

"Saving you," he offers nonchalantly and the words feel incredibly accurate on his tongue, as if he had been doing this since the beginning. He shakes his head of those thoughts. His hands are repositioned in a placating form. He doesn't like the feeling of bullets tearing his flesh; he is pretty sure nobody does. After months of wanting to confront her, this was definitely not anywhere within the ways he had imagined going about it.

"I'm pretty sure you're not the hero of the story," she snarls and Sylar momentarily lose focus in the fieriness of her emerald orbs, thus his attention wanders for a millisecond too late. He should have picked up on the other man lifting himself from the floor, taking two steps forward, hitting his ankle on the leg of a chair.

But he doesn't. He is too wrapped up in what Claire has told him.

It's only when her head turns sharply, probably alarmed by the sound, that he sees the dark figure of the man reflecting itself in her eyes. Claire loses her footing as she turns abruptly, the gun splayed onto the cold floor, flying out of her grasp as she lands on her back hard. He doesn't allow the other perpetrator to go further than the four steps he had already stolen, threatening to rob a fifth, while he was unguarded. Sylar slams his body into pseudo Arthur, too caught in the frenzy of protecting Claire to display any other power of his vast arsenal.

No, brute force will have to go.

He smiles, overly pleased when his elbow connects with the other man's soft gut, leaving him breathless and doubling over in pain. He is not pleased however when he is pushed outwards with kinetic force and it sends him crashing onto one of the unoccupied beds. He lands heavily, grunting and cursing as the edge of the wood framing around the bed splinters and bites harshly into his back. Sylar forgets all delicacy, boiling in anger, and opts for efficiency. He discharges Elle's ability, creating a blue arc that sears away the night's darkness and encompasses the abilities' thief, burning his body from the inside out. He drops in a heap at the floor, slightly sizzling the last tremors of his miserable life fade away.

Sylar heaves a sigh of relief. His back hurts like hell and he is sure two ribs are broken, but he is grateful for the pain will ebb away soon thanks to his regeneration – and he got to save the girl.

Claire takes a deep shuddering breath and quickly stands from where she so carelessly fell; crossing her arms protectively over her chest, she seems to debate with herself, looking from one dark man to another, finally settling on Sylar and staring at him with a mix of emotions he can't quite place.

"What did he want?"

"Your power."

Her shoulders fall. "Of course, aren't they always?" Her mouth moves dispassionately.

It hurts more than anything, to see her so defeated. In his head, Sylar has sought her forgiveness over and over, but that's the problem – his head is like a storage container, a recollection of powers, feelings, and mementos, and he'd been living inside them too many years to know what is real and what are fabricated illusions. "Claire, I know this is not the best moment but I just wanted to say I'm so-"

The click of a gun rings loudly, both set of eyes turning at the same time. Claire's breath hitches in her throat as she gazes at the man thought dead, the man who is set on striping her of her essence point. He is extending a shaky hand in her direction, cocked gun in place; she grasps the desk she is leaning on and braces herself for impact.

Sylar has a different reaction.

_This one just won't give up_, he thinks briefly. He knows that the villain of the story always comes back to haunt the hero after he turns his back, because he has been there too many times to not know.

That's when a realization falls into place. "_I'm pretty sure you're not the hero of the story," _she had said. Only that he is and he knows now what bugged him so much about her saying that. Because he had already decided the answer to that question, years ago in the painter's loft right after he heard his forewarning of the future, only a month after hearing the Japanese man spelling out his dark diatribe.

He _would be _the hero.

His impulsiveness works quicker this time for he receives the bullet just in the nick of time to stop it from hitting Claire. It embeds deep into his flesh and seeks a place right into his beating heart. He grunts, touches the hole in his shirt, and falls.

Time comes to a stop.

He can hear the ruffling of the carpet as Claire's feet scrapes the fabric moving closer, her voice as she yells and curses his name, feels the warmth of blood seeping from the open wound staining his shirt.

He is not healing; he is going to _die_.

"_How many angels can dance on a head of a pin?"_

"_Why is there evil?"_

"_How do we make love stay?"_

"_You're not like the others; you're different, special, and I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to."_

"_You really don't understand her, do you?"_

"_When I touched your hand, I could feel the pain that I caused you and I never meant for you to __**be this hurt-"**_

_"He doesn't see our humanity, Claire. He never will."_

"_You and I are really alike; we can't be damaged – except for a broken heart."_

"_There'll come a day – maybe tomorrow, or next week, next year – when you realize the... hunt – your entire life – was meaningless and disappointing. 'Cause there's no challenge in it. No, all the power in the world doesn't matter if you've lived an unsatisfied life. But I think you know that already, don't you?"_

"_I guess not everybody gets old. Not everybody dies."_

"_Then you just have that much longer to suffer, don't you?"_

"_Who are you?"_

"_Find an anchor - something that reminds you of you. That way, when you're feeling lost, you'll have something to hang on to."_

"_I want you right at my side."_

"_You'll get bored after like a hundred years of trying to off me, watching all your loved ones drop like flies. You may eventually come to forgive me. Maybe you'll even love me."_

"_I will tell you how you die. You die alone. I'm sorry."_

"_What the hell is that supposed to mean?"_

"_It means that you will collect a lot of powers. You'll kill many people. You'll become strong, the strongest of them all. But in the end, it won't make any difference. We all gather to stop you. You're alone. No one will mourn your death. No one will shed a tear. No one. I wish I can change fate. But you must go on your path."_

_"It's alright; I finally know my part in all this. To die here with you. I finally get to be a hero."_

"_You want love, companionship, because you don't want to be alone."_

"_Stop thinking, let it happen."_

"_You and I are the same."_

"_I'm not that man anymore."_

"_I'm a __**hero **__now."_

**Tick, tick, tick.**

The countdown finally comes to an end. He glances at Claire; she is crouched over and her face is pulled so taut it looks as though it may break at any moment. Sylar smiles, a gush of blood tainting his lips and teeth. He beat destiny after all.

He gets to not die alone.

"Why?" She rasps in a whisper and he is not sure if it is the blood loss or something else but he can swear her eyes, the raging inferno she only reserves for him, has quieted down to a mild flame.

"_Why do I care?" _He recalls his earlier constant ticking in his head has quieted down, the close edge of Death's sword bringing answers he couldn't find before because suddenly he understands and it is clear as water.

He searches for her fingers because he needs to ground himself a few seconds more before he lets himself fly free. Interlacing his bloody digits with her cold ones, he brings her hand close to his lips. He smells her sweet essence one more time for the road and kisses her goodbye.

"Because I´ve always loved you," he swears, and it feels real. Sylar gets to see the smoldering fire in her eyes again; burning and scorching him just as he imagines the flames of hell will do once he crosses to the other side.

Another shot is heard.

And then he embraces the petite arms holding him down.

* * *

_When the shadows remain, in the light of day_

_On the wings of darkness he'll retaliate._

_He'll be falling from grace, till the end of all his days._

_From the ashes of hate, it's a cruel demon's fate_

_On the wings of darkness, he's returned to stay_

_There will be no escape 'coz he's falling far from grace._

The first thing he notices about the so-called afterworld is that it smells like blood.

And vanilla.

One eye opens warily; the first thing he processes is that there is light streaming from the open window, cascading down the creamy walls. Birds are singing, bugs are chirping, and blonde hair is prickling against his nose. He immediately sat up; his arms are still securely wrapped around Claire.

Her eyes are closed and she is pliable in his hands. The moisture on her back is still fresh; one finger hooks in the cloth hole left there. He traces the skin underneath; it's soft and there are no traces of the injury.

She healed but she is not waking up.

Sylar panics. This was not supposed to happen, he was the one supposed to die being a hero. _Save the cheerleader, save the world_. He focuses his attention on the man laying immobile on the floor. He knows he is dead. With a blink of his eye he snaps his neck for good measure.

"Claire!" Noah comes barging onto the door. He takes in the scene before him. The thief is dead on the floor, there are signs of a fight. His baby girl is in the arms of his partner. Sylar, Gabriel, whoever he is right now, has a far-off look plastered on his face. "What happened?" He demands.

Sylar glides his fingers through the shiny golden locks eerily resting on his chest. It's a beautiful piece with rounded edges, not overly complicated machinery – the cogs and springs come apart without a thought – and a white generic face with a printed message that says: _For eternity._

He is a watchmaker.

"She's not waking up."

And he _broke_ her.

* * *

***cries* Sorry but I did warned it was angsty…**

**Next time guys, you will get the continuation from where I left on 'Cold Snap'**

**Ok so I got MNTSK, a one-shot placed in the future, a collaboration piece written with my friend Purple_Lex, another multi-chaptered fic placed in the future and The show Must go On to work onto.**

_**This**_** is me showing my love for this show, this pairing and you guys.**


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